Marital Bitch(66)

He stands up, having now found his voice. “This is unprofessional, unacceptable, and I urge you to lower your voice, Ms. Frasier.” I let out a muffled scream. How dare he! The stupid bastard. My last name is Patrick. I may not have Brad in every way I want him, but I do have his last name, damn it.

“Or what?” I challenge.

“Or you will be excused from your position at this firm.” His voice is condescending.

Without another thought, I make a decision. “DON’T BOTHER!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Leaning forward across my desk, I meet The Toad’s eyes.

“You will have my personal items boxed up and delivered to my condo—not my husband’s house. You will expedite a check to me for all of my recently submitted billed hours,” I raise an eyebrow at him knowing that he was likely planning on trying to swindle me out of my billed hours; especially considering the fact that I’ve put in a lot of overtime as of late, and that extra cushion will help me during my apparent upcoming season of unemployment.

“Do we understand one another?” I ask. Nate remains silent. It’s probably for the best. I’m one short answer from backhanding that moron right about now. I grab my purse and pull my apple fritter from the top right hand drawer and smirk at the pansy before me—and then take a huge bite of my pastry—and smile wide as I exit what was once my sanctuary.

“And one more thing—if there is not a sufficient enough bonus attached to my last check from this firm, then you can assure that I will be filing a civil suit against you and the firm for your horrid behavior. Surely, an attorney of your caliber should know by now that badgering an employee and then outright asking whether or not they are with child is illegal… and that, Toad, is one of your milder offenses. I keep good records, so don’t even try me, you swine.”





CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

(Colleen)





This is going to kill us both.





TWO WEEKS AGO I quit my job. I’d threatened my boss—practically threw my chair at him—in what Brad would proudly call a hormonal rage. He’s always been all about labeling any type of outburst as a hormonal rage. The shit head. I didn't tell him—haven’t told him. I will… eventually. You know... after I get caught in my lie. But for now, I'm going to keep right on pretending that I'm an employed, capable adult who did not throw the mother of all temper tantrums and quit her job.

Yeah, that definitely wasn't me last week.

And it wasn't me who kicked a dent into the side of The Toad's car.

Nope.

Didn't do that, either.

Not that we’ve talked much. I sort of stopped talking to him and now he’s sort of stopped talking to me. He and James have been thick as thieves lately. They’re always talking and quietly and if I try to inquire about it, they clam up. Not that I’ve been a peach. Brad can’t do anything right lately. One minute he offers to help me with coffee in the morning and I’m swooning over this man who offers to help with the little stuff like making coffee; and the next I’m cursing him out for thinking I’m a moron who can’t make her own coffee. He can’t win for losing, so I can’t say that I really blame him for backing off, any sane person would.

So, I got up this morning and tried to put on my requisite work uniform: black slacks, comfortable pumps, white pin-striped button-up, and black blazer. The slacks were uncomfortable so I opted for my period slacks. Work slacks have been uncomfortable all week. I must be bloated or something, because everything fits abnormally.

Then again, I am unemployed and I’ve turned into a major snacker, according to the old ball and chain himself. Yesterday, I read a study that detailed how the unemployed have a higher probability of being overweight than the employed. I really shouldn’t have kicked Brad’s Knicks hoop when he called me the Snack Queen for the first time. I just really hate that hoop. And I’m not terribly fond of the new nickname, either.

I left my hair down and put on very minimal makeup. Brad commented on my hair and makeup. I just shrugged and said that I didn’t feel like doing much today. It was the truth, but more so, I was tired of squeezing into clothes that didn’t fit to go sit in a park and feed pigeons and stuff myself with uncooked pasta. Don’t judge me. I like to snack on uncooked macaroni. Everybody has their thing.

Anyway, Brad being Brad, he tried to make me feel better. He told me I looked great. And I almost cried. I hate my period and the emotional rollercoaster that comes with it. But I love my husband. I really do.

So, today I decided to be proactive. I had a few main problems on my hands and I needed to figure them out before Detective Patrick caught onto me. I didn’t have much time. My daily trip to the park would have to wait until after I’ve met with the real estate agent.